


Blue Eyes and Black Curls

by soufflegirl91



Series: I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:40:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soufflegirl91/pseuds/soufflegirl91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it comes to Grantaire, you sometimes think there are more things you avoid than actually talk about</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Eyes and Black Curls

When it comes to Grantaire, you sometimes think there are more things you avoid than actually talk about. You try to discuss the drinking, but it always dissolves into an argument. You never give up, even though there are times when you think the confrontation is making the drinking worse. He wouldn’t tell you why he began drinking in the first place, even though you’ve asked him a thousand and one times. The closest you ever got to an answer was a sarcastic “Why does the bird eat the worm?” You don’t speak to him for a week after that.

When you (finally) get together he still won’t tell you, but you think you begin to see some of the reasons why he hides himself in a bottle. You see it in the scars he refuses to acknowledge. The first time you saw his back was an accident. You walked into his apartment without knocking one morning, a reminder to lock his door on the tip of your tongue, to find him shirtless in the kitchen with his back to you. The words turn to ashes in your mouth when you see the faint, criss-crossed lines. When you try to ask he just leaves you standing there without a word and you hear nothing for three days. Three days of pacing and worrying, you try so hard not to imagine your lover dead in a ditch somewhere. When he eventually comes home, it is with a black eye and bloody nose. He reeks of booze more than usual, but you don’t mention it.

It’s there in the canvas you find facing the wall behind the sofa. Startlingly familiar blue eyes stare out at you, set in a round face framed by the same wild, messy curls you’ve come to love. She isn’t beautiful, but the obvious care taken to paint the picture makes your heart ache. You’ve never seen him so mad as when he catches you looking. He snatches the picture from your hands with such force you think it’ll tear. Something inside you breaks when you see the look of reverence and pain on his face as he carefully returns the picture to its place. That night, he drinks more than he has in months and you still don’t ask. 

More than anything, it’s there in his relationship with Éponine and Gavroche. You know he loves you more than anything, but if either of them needs anything he’ll drop even you like a hot potato. He’s so careful not to lose them; they’re the only people other than you that he shows any affection towards. No amount of drink can stop him sobering up enough to look after Gavroche. Sometimes you’ll catch him looking at the way Éponine cares for her brother with a faraway look of longing and regret, but then he’ll catch your eye and shake it off with a scoff and an eye-roll. On those days, he doesn’t drown his sorrows. Instead, he gets quiet and distant; even you have trouble getting a reaction when he’s like that. You didn’t think it possible, but those days make you worry even more.

“Family” and “childhood” are not words you mention to Grantaire. You learn that the hard way, when what was a simple recollection of teenage years amongst friends ended with him spending two days in hospital and having his stomach pumped. When he gets home he spends days sketching and won’t let you look. You think you catch sight of blue eyes and black curls, but you daren’t bring it up. 

One night in February, he comes home drunk (he’d been getting better, but the setbacks always come along). Instead of his usual amorous inebriation, he just buries himself in your arms and sobs into your shoulder. You whisper platitudes into his hair and drop kisses on his forehead, trying not to think of all the things the two of you don’t say. Hours later, when he’s calmed down and is on the edge of sleep, he mumbles something into your neck. It doesn’t explain everything, and it doesn’t answer your questions, but now you can put a name to the face that’s been haunting you. 

“Her name was Emmanuelle.”


End file.
